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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041928">Fiona, Breaker of Chains</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/batsy22/pseuds/batsy22'>batsy22</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Dragon Age: Inquisition Quest - In Your Heart Shall Burn, Elves, Elvhen, Gen, Mage Rebellion (Dragon Age), Redcliffe (Dragon Age), The White Spire, political despair</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-14</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:36:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,020</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30041928</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/batsy22/pseuds/batsy22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“It's hard to start a revolution. Even harder to continue it. And hardest of all to win it.” - Ben M'Hidi, Battle of Algiers </p><p>Fiona despairs, as Alexius's spell leaves her unmoored in time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alistair &amp; Fiona (Dragon Age)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fiona, Breaker of Chains</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><br/>
“Starting a revolution is the easy part. Winning one is the far more difficult task.” </p><p>Fiona looks at the words she has written, and cannot remember why. She sees that it is a pamphlet to send out to the remaining rebels, but she cannot recall for what purpose. Her temples throb with pain, eyes droop downwards with exhaustion- when was the last time she slept? She can’t remember. </p><p>“The Venatori, as the vanguard of the Imperium, will be honored to protect the mage rebellion from the templars, if, Grand Enchanter, you would merely agree to the terms of our contract,” says the Tevinter, a man she can’t recognize at first. Slowly, she remembers, this is the shem who seeks indentured servitude for her people, who’d provide protection from the templars if she’d agree to ship a few elvhen up to the Imperium. She opens her mouth to tell him to fuck off, that she’ll personally rip out his shem tongue if he dares make such an offer here again, but the words don’t form. She feels blood drip down from her nose, her vision clouds. </p><p>Fiona’s in the White Spire, yelling “Fuck the Divine” to the College, relishing the horrified gasps of the Loyalists. “Well I’m sure the Divine is a perfectly nice woman,” she smirks. The vote swings their way, a moment Fiona has fought for her entire life, but now that it’s here, she feels unprepared for what happens next. They fight through the circle, a young enchanter, one of the People, throws himself on a templar blade to save Fiona; she doesn’t even know his name. So many sacrifices, cannot let them be in vain, must do what is impossible. In the streets of Val Royeaux, they chant that they are finally free, but they are not yet; it’s just a comfortable lie that they all share. </p><p>“I understand the nobility of Ferelden has reached the limit of their accommodation. The Imperium will provide what King Alistair will not,” says the shem magister, fiddling with a strange talisman. Alistair. She’s holding her baby boy in her arms, caresses the slight point of his small ears. Fiona is of the People, the long struggle of the Elvhen is in her very bones, she cannot impose such a burden on a child. Her son will never know his People, will never know her. She is a revolutionary, fighting and always prepared to die for her people, and there is no time for anything else. </p><p>Fiona is in Denerim after the Blight, watching from afar as they place a crown on Alistair’s head. She hopes the shem aristocrats will learn to ignore the slight point of his ears, the strange width of his eyes. Then, she is reading about another purge of the alienage,  of how the appointed Elvhen Bann was murdered and not replaced by the Ferelden Crown. Her son has grown into a shemlen after all, what did she expect? </p><p>She’s kneeling before the throne, a necessary degradation after Andoral’s Reach, her grown son above her. Her knees begin to cramp before he finally speaks in full view of the court, “Very well, the rebel mages will have sanctuary in Ferelden. But, our army won’t fight for you, nor will we prevent the templars from pursuit if they wish.” Fiona grovels and thanks him, as is expected, he motions for her to stand and whispers that he wishes there was more he could do. But then, she is in the halls of Redcliffe castle, and her own son, flanked by his honor guard, orders the rebels to leave their sanctuary, recalling any protection her people had from the templars. </p><p>“It is a quite reasonable offer. I do not believe you will find a better one,” the magister says. She’s in her chambers, reading the daily casualties. Every day another friend, another comrade, dead, or worse. As the templars advance, demons of Despair appear as she dreams; Fiona herself manages to shut them out, but other enchanters aren’t so lucky. Every night brings danger, she’s never sure how many will wake in the morning. Fiona prays to Andraste and Shartan every night, wondering if they ever felt such crushing doubt during their rebellion, the kind that makes her feel as she is constantly shrinking into herself. She prays to the old gods of the People as well, for the justice of Mythal, the cunning of Andruil, the power of Elgar'nan, but they, as always, are silent. In her dreams, she spies a Wolf watching her curiously; on top of everything else, it seems she’s caught the scent of the fucking Dread Wolf. </p><p>She’s face-to-face with Enchanter Trevelyan now, daughter of the infamous Lady Trevelyan of the Free Marches, now called the “Herald of Andraste.”The true-believing Liberati, the one she sent to stop the Conclave if the negotiations didn’t swing their way, returns to Redcliffe with a Seeker at her back. Fiona watches as she realizes the terrible truth of their predicament,“An Alliance with Tevinter? I cannot possibly think of a worse decision you could have made,” she says. But, what decision was there? </p><p>Fiona is in the back of the tavern now, her temples throb with pain, and her mind feels foggy. She thinks there’s something important she has forgotten, but can’t remember what. Enchanter Linnea of Ostwick sits beside her, puts a comforting hand on her knee and says, “You did the right thing. The Imperium will protect us now.”</p><p>Trevelyan appears again in front of Fiona and Linnea, this time separate from her Inquisition companions. “Let me help,” she begs, “All I want is for our people to not end up in Circles again. Or worse.” Fiona cannot find the words to answer, so Linnea does so for her. “Go back to your templars,” she scoffs, Trevleyn flinches. </p><p>“Grand Enchanter?” the magister smiles, “will the mage rebellion accept our terms?” There is no choice to make. They never could win this rebellion. She’s already chosen, and will do it again. </p><p>“Yes, Magister Alexius,” she concedes. This time, at least, the shackles are hers to choose. </p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>For the record, I really love Alistair! It's really not meant as character hate, I just wanted to express the complex feelings Fiona might have about what her son has and hasn't done as monarch. Alistair is limited by the throne, he's a good king, but still a king.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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